


Talent Scout

by sarcasticsra



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, First Meetings, Gen, Jossed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-17
Updated: 2013-10-17
Packaged: 2017-12-29 15:36:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1007105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarcasticsra/pseuds/sarcasticsra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The guy has been quiet throughout all of this, which some might find weird, but Anthony has given up trying to predict how people will react to knowing they’re about to die—some break down crying, some yell, but some go kind of blank, almost emotionless. He can never tell who’s going to do what.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Talent Scout

**Author's Note:**

> SO APPARENTLY THEY'RE JUST GOING TO TAKE OVER NOW. I see how it is. This was supposed to be for a prompt at the meme_of_interest, but I failed. So I will try again. Thanks for the beta, Kelly, and thanks for the title, Oro!

This small-time shit is annoying.

Anthony hates dealing with moronic loan sharks and two-bit drug dealers, but he likes having enough money to pay rent and buy food to eat, so he does it, because what else is there to do? 

It’s still annoying, though, and it’s not even that it’s beneath him—it is, but cry him a river already, who cares—but that he hates fucking working with amateurs. Amateurs fucking _panic_ when shit they’re not expecting crops up, which just makes it all worse, and he is too goddamn good at this to end up getting busted on a fucking coke deal worth less than five grand.

Is some clueless teacher barging into the middle of the situation a good thing? No. Is that any reason to lose every ounce of common sense in his head? Of course not. “Jimmy, just stop, okay? You’re going to get us all arrested.”

“He’s seen our faces!” Jimmy yells, again, like Anthony didn’t hear him the first three times or something.

“I’m up to speed, Jimmy, thanks. I can handle this.”

“I should handle this. I can handle him right now.” He makes a point of shoving the barrel of the gun into the guy’s forehead, which is stupid on a number of levels, but chief among them being: _never fucking get that close with a gun_. 

This kind of posturing just doesn’t make sense to him. If you’re going to shoot a guy, shoot him—the point of a gun is that you don’t have to get up close and personal to do it. Too many guys seem to think they’re actual extensions of their cocks, though, and they apparently really need to shove them in everyone’s faces.

“Jimmy, let me walk you through this,” Anthony says, slowly, patiently, like he’s talking to a three-year-old, which, hell, he might as well be. “You shoot him here, everyone hears it. Cops would be here in fifteen minutes, tops. So we’d have to just ditch everything and get out, which means we lose money, but also means we leave evidence—a lot of evidence. We’re rounded up a week later, you crack under the pressure and take whatever deal they’re offering you, and we’re both in prison for at least five years. Any of that sound like a good plan to you?”

Jimmy looks like he’s thinking really hard. Anthony half-expects steam to come out of his ears. “We just can’t let him go.”

“No shit,” Anthony says. “Let me take care of him. I’m good at that kind of thing.”

“Okay,” he says slowly, and backs away with the gun. 

Anthony levels his own at the guy and says, “We’re going for a ride. Let’s go.”

The guy has been quiet throughout all of this, which some might find weird, but Anthony has given up trying to predict how people will react to knowing they’re about to die—some break down crying, some yell, but some go kind of blank, almost emotionless. He can never tell who’s going to do what.

“You handled that well,” the guy finally says, on the way to the car—he was planning to ditch it tonight anyway, so it’s a good excuse as any.

A compliment. That’s a new one. “Thanks,” Anthony says, because hey, why not.

“Why are you wasting your talents working with idiots like that?”

Anthony stops and meets his eyes. “Food costs money. What did you say you teach?”

“History,” he says and smiles. There’s something not right about that smile. It’s too knowing. “Your name’s Anthony, isn’t it? Anthony Marconi?”

Every single one of his hackles slams up. “Who the hell are you?”

“You worked for Gianni Moretti.”

“I quit.”

“He doesn’t usually let people quit.”

“I’m better than the guys he sent to kill me.”

“There’s something we have in common,” he says, still smiling, and shows him his hands: scarred, obviously from a garrote. Huh. “You didn’t betray him, though.”

“I’m not a rat.”

“So why quit?”

Anthony narrows his eyes. “Who the hell are you?”

“Not Charlie Burton, though I’m sure you’ve figured that out already,” he says, and he sounds almost sheepish. Anthony can’t decide if he’s more pissed off or impressed by this guy, whoever he is. “I’m someone who can offer you what you want.”

“Is that right? And you know what I want?”

“Why did you quit working for Moretti, Anthony?”

“What’s it matter to you? What’s your interest in him?”

He smiles again, almost self-deprecating. “Well, we may not exactly be on Christmas card terms, but he is technically my father.”

And just like that, it all clicks into place: the bastard son. He heard rumors, of course, that he returned to New York, but it just sounded like idle underworld gossip to him; he didn’t believe it. Anthony doesn’t care what anyone says—mobsters outdo even the most stereotypical teenage girls ten to one in terms of gossip and rumor. “Elias, is it?” he asks.

Elias smiles. “Nice to meet you, Anthony.” He frowns for a moment, looking thoughtful. “I hope no one ever tries to call you Tony.”

“Only if they want me to shoot them,” he says, and Elias laughs. He sounds genuinely delighted.

“You’re talented. I think you could use some direction. How would you like to help me take over New York City?”

“You think you’re that good?”

He shrugs. “It matters more what you think right now.”

Anthony’s leaning more and more toward impressed, he knows that much. He can see the intelligence shining bright behind those mild-mannered frames. He can see the intent, too—the hunger. “Why do you want to know why I quit working for your father?”

“I have a hunch. I’d like to see if I’m right.”

“I guess I didn’t really have a reason,” he says. “After a while, doing the same things, getting screwed by and screwing the same people, it got old. I just didn’t see the point.”

This time Elias’ smile is small, barely even a smile at all—but he’s pleased, that much he can tell. “I think you need more than a job, Anthony. I think you need a purpose. That’s what I’m offering.”

A purpose. That’s a new one too.

Anthony lowers his gun. He made up his mind a little while ago, if he’s honest with himself.

“Want me to start tonight, boss?”


End file.
